He selected Alvarez because he didn’t like him. Of course, Collins probably did not like anyone. He was the perfect assassin; he killed without regard to race creed or national origin. But Alvarez’s obvious hatred of all gringos made him stand out, so Collins had assigned him as a squad leader and filled the squad only with Latinos.
****
Sgt. Alvarez had a history that had made him perfect for Operation Omega. He was a young man filled with hatred, gringos in particular. He had no qualms about killing in cold blood.
He had grown up on an isolated ranch in the brutal heat of the southern Arizona desert. It wasn’t much of a ranch with only a few ramshackle buildings and scrawny livestock. Many believed that the whole operation was a cover for smuggling drugs across the border from Mexico, but nothing had ever been proved.
The absentee owner only rarely visited the ranch and left the operations to his foreman, a callous man who had no respect or compassion for those who worked for him, especially the many Mexican illegals.
For his entire young life, Alvarez had witnessed his parent’s abuse and disrespect by the foreman. With every passing day, he had become filled with more seething hatred toward that man and all others like him. In fact, he came to believe all Norte Americanos were cut from the same fabric, and he bitterly resented their fine cars, fancy restaurants, and beautiful homes.
If he had lived in Los Angeles, he would have already been a gang member with multiple crimes and maybe even a murder or two to his credit. He admired the gangs and even gave himself some homemade tattoos to give him the look of a member.
Then one day, he snapped. He was only about thirteen at the time but tall and strong for his age. He had finished his work early and was looking forward to a few minute’s rest before his parents got home. He opened the sagging screen door to find a drunken ranch hand standing inside.
The man, called Tank because of his size and strength, was probably not more than thirty but looked much older due to his life in the desert. He was an alcoholic and drug user whose face attested to the many barroom fights that left many scars.
The man stood in the center of the tiny kitchen and glared at Alvarez. “Hey, you little punk, where’s that cute Chiquita that you call a sister? I hear she needs a real man, and that would be me.”
He laughed and stumbled toward the old refrigerator, probably hoping to find beer inside. He looked in at the sparse contents, spat, and turned back toward Alvarez with a malicious look. Alvarez jumped to the kitchen counter and grabbed a sharp knife just as Tank lunged. He crouched, stepped aside, and stabbed upward just below the man’s ribcage. He pushed that knife with all his might, and he knew that he had probably pierced Tank’s heart.
Tank’s eyes widened in surprise, and he tried to speak, but no words came. He attempted to gasp, but only blood bubbled from his lips as he collapsed onto the bare wooden floor.
Alvarez knelt down and looked at the body. Surprisingly, there was little blood since the knife was still embedded up to the hilt in Tank’s body.
Alvarez felt nothing. No remorse, no compassion for the dead man, no shame. He suddenly realized what he had done and knew that he had to do something to prevent the blame from resting at his father’s feet. At this hour of the day, there would be no one out and about. He would, surely, have time to move the body and think up a way to hide the murder.
Fortunately, he was strong, and it took all of that strength as he dragged the limp body across the dusty yard to the bunkhouse where he managed to hoist Tank onto his bunk. He knew that he had to get rid of the knife. He grabbed the hilt and pulled. Nothing happened. This time he yanked hard, and the blade came out smoothly.
He pulled the dirty blanket up over Tank’s face and glanced around at the empty bottles of cheap tequila that littered the dusty floor. Then he saw what he needed. Just under the edge of the bed, he found a full bottle of the stuff. He removed the cap, doused the body and then found a book of matches on a nearby table. Next, he piled some greasy clothes around the body and lit a match and tossed it on top the mess.
The fire began to burn furiously, and Alvarez ran for the door. Soon the entire, old building was engulfed in flames.
Alvarez returned to his family’s little house, washed the knife, and packed his extra set of ragged clothes in an old pillow case. He left a note for his parents saying that he was going to find better work in California. Then he hurried and left his ramshackle home and Arizona forever.
The burned-out bunkhouse with the charred body inside created a little excitement. The sheriff, from the nearest town, made a cursory visit and determined that the ranch hand had probably been drunk, drugged, or both and started the fatal fire himself. No one cared about the man called Tank who had no family, no friends, and no known past. He was just another drifter who had wandered in to find work and now he was dead and forgotten.
Alvarez eventually wound up in a shelter in Los Angeles that was run by a Catholic charity. One of the priests suggested that he might do well in the military and a few years later, with the help of forged identification papers, he was an army recruit at the age of sixteen.
Alvarez was well suited to the military and did well with the disciplined lifestyle. He never forgot that ranch hand that he had killed years ago. He considered it only partial revenge for all the injustices that he and his family had experienced at the hands of gringos.
****
Alvarez’s squad began shouting that a terrorist attack was imminent. All guests who were not already in the West Virginia Wing were to be rounded up and told to go to their rooms immediately. They were ordered not come out unless they heard the code word Omega. If they heard Omega, they were to come out of their room immediately! It meant they were being moved into the bunker.
Collins did not anticipate that any would ever come out of their room because he fully expected his explosives to destroy the West Virginia Wing and all those inside.
A few minutes later, Collins was watching the TV news on his cell phone when he saw an announcement that the president of the United States was about to broadcast an urgent message to the nation. Naturally, he was curious and waited patiently for Montrose to make her announcement. To say he was shocked to see Henry Wilkinson’s face appear on the screen would be an understatement.
Collins's eyes narrowed to slits, and he immediately knew that something was very wrong. But he quickly decided that no matter what had gone wrong, he would not be denied his fun. He had waited so long for it. He had not killed another human being since the bloody example that he had set for his troops. His bestial appetite must be satisfied. He immediately picked up the special radio and pressed the button to detonate the explosives.
Nothing happened. Collins, screamed, “Shit!” He then pressed the button again.
When nothing happened, he hurled the radio as far as he could.
Five unfortunate members of Congress had decided to take an early morning walk rather than take breakfast. They missed the mandatory order to go to their rooms and stay there. They were just returning from their walk when the Collin’s radio came crashing to the ground near them.
One of the startled congressmen walked over to investigate, and in doing so, caught Collin’s eye. He was enraged that his orders hadn’t been obeyed and signaled the guards to open fire on the group.
After brief volleys from several weapons set on automatic fire, all five of the unfortunate congressmen were lying in bloody heaps on the perfectly manicured lawn.
What followed was a display of firepower never before seen on planet Earth. In less than a minute, two hundred eighty-seven soldiers were virtually vaporized by red lightning bolts from the sky. The entire area now reeked with the sickening stench of burning flesh.
As fate would have it, Lt. Colonel Steven Collins was not among the first to die, and those last few seconds of his life proved to be catastrophic for many.
Collins had time to use his radio and scream an order to Sgt. Alvarez, “Implement Omega, N
OW!”
Alvarez, stationed inside with his men, heard the gunfire outside and gave the final orders of his life.
He gave the order to initiate Operation Omega.
The sentries at each end of the hallways began shouting “Omega!”
In a few seconds, congressmen began to open their doors and head toward exits cautiously. But not a single one of them reached the exit.
Alvarez gave his final order, “Shoot at will” and his men unleashed a hail of bullets that would mow down the shocked senators and representatives before they knew what was happening. Fortunately, many others heard the gunfire and locked themselves in their rooms.
Maxxine had reacted immediately by placing a protective gravity shield around the building after Collin’s men killed the congressmen outside the building. It had seemed to be the proper response at the time, but there would be dire consequences for the members of Congress inside.
By the time she finished with the Scorpion Battalion outside and could remove the shield, many were dead or dying, scattered about in the hotel rooms and hallways. She responded with lethal force and the last of the soldiers, including Alvarez, were almost instantly killed.
Now, there was no sound other than a few soft moans from those who were lying wounded in the halls.
The total death toll of those members of Congress killed in the slaughter would finally reach one hundred thirty-seven when the last one of the wounded to die passed away later that day.
All members of the Scorpion Battalion were dead.
It was a bloodbath that would shock the nation and the rest of the world as well.
****
John remembered that fatal decision that he made when he had authorized lethal force to be used if necessary. That decision had resulted in the deaths of two hundred ninety-eight members of the Scorpion Battalion, including its infamous leader, Lt. Colonel Steven Collins.
He could live with that, but the death of one hundred thirty-seven high-level members of the government tore at his soul. He was devastated that he had not been able to save them from such a senseless slaughter. And, to add to his unbearable pain, he had promised those people that they were safe and would be returning to Washington, DC, the following day. The fact that so many would do so in a body bag produced an agonizing pain that John could not shake and left him extremely depressed.
He recalled Maxxine’s report of the events. She had been consulting with John at the very moment that Collins had ordered his troops to murder the five congressmen who had left the building.
The extra remote craft were just short of being positioned when the final slaughter began. They had not been ready to respond to the gunfire during those last confusing moments. Unfortunately, the squad of soldiers inside the building was protected by the gravity shield so that she couldn’t protect the hostages from them. By the time that she could act, the shooting within the West Virginia Wing had started. Her final act at the bloody scene was to destroy the final remains of the Scorpion Battalion, Sgt. Alvarez, and his squad.
The Scorpion Battalion would never be forgotten. Their traitorous acts would forever live on in the annals of the world's most brutal massacres. The slaughter of so many high-level government officials was without precedent.
The shooting war had been brief, and the casualties were small compared to any previous war. But John Scott was still distraught.
There had been fifty US military casualties at Scott Key and another sixty-two in Washington, DC, around the White House.
One hundred and twelve innocent young men had died thinking that they were serving their country.
One hundred thirty-seven politicians were killed at the Greenbrier.
Another two hundred ninety-eight members of the Scorpion Battalion had died as well, but John managed to accept their loss as totally necessary, even desirable. It was all those others that weighed so heavily on his heart. It did not ease his pain one iota when Jim Slater commented, “This will doubtlessly go down in history as the only war ever fought in which politician casualties outnumbered those of ordinary soldiers. That is if we don’t count the Scorpion Battalion.”
For John Scott, all joy of victory was washed away by the blood of those lost in attaining it. He may have saved the United States from the Krakow Klub, but he paid a high price for it, at least in his mind. The spilling of blood was innately heinous to him. And, to know that so much of it had been innocent young men simply seeking a start in life made it all the more horrible.
But, of course, the tragic deaths of so many members of Congress had been the one that made all the headlines and stirred up the most public outrage. The losses of CSF635 and the brigade in Washington, DC, barely made page two or three of the papers and were a mere footnote on most newscasts.
The attempted assassination of the president and the killing of VIPs at the Greenbrier had been all that the media wanted to report, analyze, and reanalyze.
Ordinary servicemen, it would seem, were expected to die in battle.
****
It was just past daybreak on Saturday. John walked alone on the beach. The final shots had been silenced for almost thirty-six hours. But the sounds of gunfire still reverberated in his mind. Those sounds caused pains that pierced not only his consciousness but his heart as well.
There was no solace in victory.
Just then, he noticed something partially covered in the sand. He reached down and brushed the sand aside to reveal a large conch shell. It had obviously just been deposited with the last tide and was completely undamaged. The soft pink and coral colors inside the shell were like the soft rays of sunrise. Its natural beauty brought the first tiny feelings of peace to him. He would heal, but it would take time. He continued to study the beauty of this, one of God’s masterpieces, for several minutes and then decided to take it to Julia. She loved all things from the sea and had a treasured collection of shells from around the world. This perfect creation would join them in a simple display of exquisite natural beauty.
Thank God for Julia.
He ran his fingers along the surface of the shell and looked out over the sea. “Julia, I could never have made it through this without you.”
With that thought in mind, he turned from the sea and trudged back towards the house. Others would be waking up soon. And he did not want to miss a moment of their company.
He thought, “Life with those you love is very precious.”
He vowed never to waste a moment of it for the remainder of his life.
For the first time since he was a young child, John Scott felt that he had a family. He truly belonged. He had loved his biological family, but he had always been different and never felt he was a true part of it. For years, he had reconciled himself to a lonely existence, but now he had people who cared for him, and he returned those feelings without hesitation. Jim Slater had been his first true friend, and now he was more like a son.
Finally, Julia had come into his life. She made him feel human again. For the first time in his life, he could love without restraint.
Even Maxx had been unable to provide consolation. He assured John that there had been no possible way to predict those last few minutes that led up to the slaughter at the Greenbrier. Maxxine reacted quickly, and many had been saved from certain death, but that wasn’t enough to bring John any comfort.
Maxx spoke in a kind voice, “You will begin to heal with time. Be patient. You saved your government and eliminated the Krakow Klub. The death toll could have been far, far higher.”
John continued to suffer remorse and internal pain. Nothing anyone said gave him any relief from his suffering. Julia tried but soon realized that the best thing would be to simply be there for him, love him, but let him work it out within himself.
John clutched the conch shell gently and turned to face the villa. The rising sun almost blinded him, and he could hardly see the outline of the house. As he approached and entered the shadow of the house, he began to see clearly again. Standing at the
entrance was Julia, waiting for him.
For the first time in several days John smiled. He was looking at his future, and it was a truly beautiful and inspiring sight.
He would survive and thrive. The remainder of his life would be devoted to loving her.
Julia deserved nothing less.
Somewhere far, far out in space, a voice could be heard saying, “Yes, indeed, I did select her well. One day, they will thank me.”
Chapter 15: Aftermath
“More than most, I know the pain of surviving.”
- Ann Aguirre, Aftermath
President Wilkinson, now firmly back in charge at the White House, immediately named Dr. James R. Slater as his chief policy advisor. Jim said his goodbyes at Scott Key and returned to Washington, DC, at once. The challenges there seemed insurmountable. Many government officials were dead, the military was in disarray, and the public was reeling from the disaster.
Cool heads and calm thinkers were needed to bring things under control, and Jim Slater fitted the bill perfectly. He was installed in an office in the West Wing and plunged into his duties.
The president and his loyal staff worked night and day to restore order. Soon, the military was under control, and those officers associated with the Krakow Klub were arrested and incarcerated. A few, realizing their fate, had committed suicide rather than face trial. It was entirely possible that some others had escaped detection and disappeared into the bowels of the military hierarchy.
Now the nation had to cope with an unprecedented problem. How could the courts handle such a massive number of trials? Who would defend those charged with such heinous offenses? Everything must be done according to the rule of law. That would take much time and effort.
****
On Scott Key, things gradually returned to normal. John’s wounds began to heal slowly, and he began to focus on the job at hand. He would go to Washington, DC, from time to time and spend the day with Jim Slater. They began the process of reorganizing the government. He refused to stay overnight; from now on, and for the rest of his life, nights were for Julia.
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